Part 20 (1/2)

”Empty!” she said. ”Hard luck! Water will have to do. We were careless to forget our drinking-cups. Rinse this flask, and get some water from the spring, Vivian.”

Vivian, still waving the fan in the air, brought the water, which Virginia tried to pour between the man's lips. It seemed to arouse him, for he drank some gratefully, though without opening his eyes.

”I ought to wash some of this blood away,” said Virginia, ”but I guess I won't take the time. You can do that after I'm gone. There's only one thing to do. We can't leave this man here in this condition. He might die before any one found him. I'll take Pedro and ride on to Michner's as fast as I can for help. Or,” she added, seeing Vivian's eyes open wider, ”_you_ take him, and I'll stay here. Either you like, only we must decide at once. Maybe we'll meet somebody or somebody'll come, or maybe there'll be somebody at the homesteader's cabin. Which will you do, ride or stay?”

Vivian had decided before she looked at Pedro. She always felt that Pedro entertained scorn for her, contempt that wild gallops through the sagebrush should, together with his youth and speed, present terrors. She knew that he despised her for preferring Siwash to him.

”I'll stay,” she said firmly. ”Pedro will do more for you than for me.

When will you be back?”

Virginia was already in the saddle.

”Probably in little more than an hour, if I find folks,” she said. ”Keep giving him some water if he needs it, and fan him. He may come to.

Good-by.”

The sound of Pedro's feet died away all too quickly. The stillness which followed was deeper than ever. It fairly sang in the air. For fully five minutes Vivian stood motionless, loath to believe that Virginia had gone.

She did not want to be alone! Something inside of her cried out against it. But she _was_ alone--she, Vivian Winters, alone with a dying cow boy on a limitless Wyoming plain. Since the relentless knowledge pushed itself upon her, she might as well accept it. _She was alone!_ And there was the cow boy!

Virginia had said that he might come to! For her own sake she hoped he didn't. He was awful enough as he was--blood-smeared and dirty--but at least he did not realize the situation, and that was a scant comfort. If he came to, he might be insane. Blows on the head often made persons so.

Given insanity and a gun, what would be the demonstration?

A low groan from the quaking-asp thicket brought Vivian to herself.

Imagination had no place here. This man was hurt, and she was strong and well. There was a spring of water near by, and she had extra handkerchiefs in her pocket. It was plainly up to her!

The stillness was less persistent after she had gone to the spring for water. She forgot all about it as she knelt beside the wounded man and washed the blood from his pain-distorted face. He opened his eyes as he felt the cold cloths, and Vivian saw that they were good, blue eyes. They, together with the absence of blood and dirt, told her that her patient was young--only a boy, in fact! The cut on his head was ugly! Something fluttered inside of her as she parted his hair to place a clean handkerchief upon it, and for a moment she was ill and faint. The cow boy's ”Thank you, miss,” brought her to herself. Perhaps he was coming to! It was not so awful as she had thought.

But he again fell asleep, cleaner and more comfortable than before. The buckskin whinnied her thanks, and put her nose against Vivian's arm as she went to the spring for more water. For the first time in her life Vivian felt the comrades.h.i.+p, the dumb understanding of a horse. Then Siwash became glorified. He was something more than a ragged, decrepit old pony.

He was a companion, and Vivian stopped to pat him before she hurried back to her patient.

Upon her return from her third journey after water, she found the cow boy's eyes again open. This time he had raised himself on his elbow and was looking at her. He had come to, and it was not horrible at all. Her only feeling was one of alarm lest his sitting up should cause his wound to bleed again, and she hurried to him.

”You're feeling better, aren't you?” she faltered. ”But you'd better lie down. You've got a pretty bad cut on your head.”

The boy smiled in a puzzled way.

”I don't seem to remember much,” he said, ”except the header. My horse fell when I wa'n't expectin' it, and I went on a rock. 'Twas the only one on the prairie, I guess, but it got me for sure. What are you doin' here, miss? I don't seem to remember you.”

Vivian explained as simply as possible. She and her friend had been resting when his horse brought him to the quaking-asps. One of them had gone for help, and the other had stayed. She was the other.

”You're not from these parts, I take it,” said the boy, still puzzled.

”You don't speak like us folks.”

”No,” Vivian told him, ”I'm from the East. I came out here six weeks ago to visit my friend.”

Her patient looked surprised and raised himself again on his elbow in spite of Vivian's restraining hand.

”So much of a tenderfoot as that?” he said, gazing at her. ”They ain't usually such good sports as you are, miss. Yes, thank you, I'll have some more water. It's right good, I tell you!”